Run with the Hunted
by Dunedain789
Summary: When the 141 are betrayed, Shepherd didn't quite managed to destroy all of the loose ends. This is how I perceived MW3 would have turned out had Roach and Ghost survived the atrocities of shadow company. This is a rewrite of a story I began years ago.
1. Shadow Company

**115 miles north-east of Kandahar, Afghanistan**

 **14 August 2016**

 **13:09:26**

Even when he was a boy growing up in Arizona, Carl Vinson had never liked the desert. It was too hot and sticky and the sand always managed to get into the most irritating places. He adjusted the crotch of his pants again, fingers clawing for the edge of his briefs, hoping to dislodge some of the irritating grit. But when it stuck resolutely to the sweat in the crease of his legs he gave up and continued his patrol, making a mental note to wear cotton boxers from now on.

"I'm so fuckin' sick of sand man. Shit gets everywhere."

Ltn. James Lambert hated deserts as much as Carl did. Not just for the sand and the heat but the spiders and snakes and scorpions that hid in the scraggly scrubs around the river near by. He'd pummeled a camel spider with the heel of his shoe more than was necessary the other day. He maintained he wasn't scared of them but did not want them as bed buddies, so one less on base meant one less likely to hide in his room. Sgt. Young had pushed his luck a bit too far after hearing this and had released a camel spider on Lambert's bed.

Carl wasn't entirely sure why they were based out in Afghanistan. The war here had ended years ago so their little slice of hell in the mountains wasn't exactly a prime location for anything his company would be useful for. Especially with the war raging back home. But then again, none of them knew what went on in the head office until they were tasked with another mission and told the bare minimum. They were assured that they'd do more damage where they were than if they joined the firefight back home. Instead of talking about the shit sandwich they'd gotten themselves into, Carl asked about the one thing they could talk about without Lambert getting too bitter.

"Any word from Susan?"

"Talked to her the other day," a warm smile softened his expression. "She says the baby's kicking as hard as their da. Only a month to go"

"You must be chomping at the bit to get to South Africa."

"Doesn't look like I'll be there in time for the birth." The dejection in his voice isn't lost on Carl, but why talk about it? Why even mention the invasion going on back home and how lucky he was? At least Susan was safe in South Africa with her brother. Lambert had made sure of that. So instead Carl gives a sympathetic grunt and glances at his watch. He rubs a mark on the face of glass meticulously with his sleeve until it gleams and checks the time. Five minutes and 36 seconds until switch over. Good. He wants to have a shower and get rid of the dust clinging to his bollocks. Hopefully this time the lizards have kept out of the shower block. Thankfully he hadn't seen a snake in there yet but he'd heard a month ago someone had viciously beaten a Viper of some sort to death with a broom handle.

"Butcher 7, return to base, sending out Disciple 4 to take over."

"Rodger that Oxide," replied Lambert into his headset, "returning to base." He motioned for Carl to follow and the two started their walk back. The river rumbled past, drowning out the rhythmic tread of their boots as they crunched over fragments of sediment rock that had toppled from the craggy peaks of the sandstone mountains that lined both sides of the valley that marked their patrol route. Lambert had marveled several times that the mountains were so pitted and weathered they seemed to defy gravity.

They met Disciple 4 on the way in, Lambert stopping to talk to Freymuth, the officer in the group and tell him any new developments in the area. There were none so the conversation was short, though as usual Freymuth never missed the opportunity to crack a few jokes. He was rewarded by the tiniest smile out of Lambert. Two smiles in one day, thought Carl, Lambert must be happy!

"Oh before you get back to a nasty surprise," added Freymuth before they departed, "the top brass is in. General Shepherd himself." Lambert's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise.

"Maybe he's got a job for us." The hope in Carl's voice was badly disguised.

Lambert smiled tersely at Carl's enthusiasm, his expression nearly unreadable, "Better not keep him waiting then. Thanks for the tip Freymuth."

"Don't mention it." Freymuth waved jovially and he headed off down the valley with Sgt. Gregson in tow. Lambert didn't say anything else during the remaining march back to base and Carl thought it better to not mention how his expression held a certain grimness ever since the mention of the General. He wondered if Lambert was concerned that the sudden arrival of Shepherd might interfere with his plans to head back home in a few months time to Susan and his new baby.

As soon as they were back in the underground tunnels of the mountain, Carl hurried to his room, with a reminder from Lambert to stay dressed incase Shepherd wanted him. No shower then, but he could at least wash the dried sweat off his face. He dipped his hands under the cold running water of the sink and rubbed a bar of soap between his hands. Rub 5 times to get the soap off the bar, then 10 times to froth the slickness into suds. Rub suds into face, splash water and repeat. Some people called Carl quirky with his 'habits'. But he was friendly enough and quick with a joke, so no one felt the need to press him on them. Besides there were unhealthier and more self-destructive habits soldiers turned to than compulsive cleanliness.

When he was patting his face dry there was a knock at the door and, Sgt. Young entered, smiling cheerfully. His eye was still an impressive shade of lime green from the camel spider incident with Lambert.

"General Shepherd said he wanted to see you in the CO's office-" He barely avoided collision as Carl tore past him, rushing to the office.

He found Lambert and his Captain, Griffiths pouring over a map along with another three teams and the General. As if sensing the new arrival, Captain Griffiths glanced up and greeted him with an infectious grin that Carl couldn't help returning and motioned for him to join them. Lambert met Carl's eyes as he approached the table. While his face was unreadable at the best of times, there was a hardness to his features that wasn't there when Carl had last seen him upon return to base.

"Gentlemen," greeted Shepherd, as he began his brief now satisfied all parties were accounted for. "We've managed to track down Makarov to one of two locations. The first location isn't too far from here." He tapped at one of the circled areas on the map, "in the boneyard in Afghanistan. The second" he moved his fingers across the map to the second red circle, in Georgia, "is the Caucasus Mountains in Georgia." He paused when a couple of the officers gathered around the table murmured enthusiastically. A shot of excitement coursed through Carl and he turned to grin at Lambert, which Lambert did not return. Instead, Lambert turned his attention back to Shepherd, eyes narrowing nearly imperceptibly, his lips pressed into a thin line

"There will be contacts in both locations," continued Shepherd, "they will attempt to eliminate Makarov and collect any intel they find. It is our job to collect this intel-"

"Ours?" interrupted Lambert sharply, his brow furrowing, taken off guard by Shepherd's choice of words. Griffiths stiffened next to Lambert, watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, ours," returned Shepherd evenly, eying Lambert with a steely gaze. "Collecting that intel is vital for our efforts to finish the war, so I will be overseeing the intel hand-over in Georgia." He looked between both teams. "Our job is to collect this intel and to eliminate the contacts in both areas once the hand-over has occurred."

Silence followed these words as all eyes turned to the grim-faced General. It was unusual- to say the least -to eliminate contacts.

"Captain Griffiths, be ready to move out at 0600 hours. I will be accompanying your team to Georgia."

* * *

 **05:27:29**

Carl was woken by the scream of reversing jet engines in the direction of the runway. His tongue was dry and furry and he grabbed his watch on the bedside table. The alarm was set to go off in a couple of minutes. Groaning quietly to himself, he turned off the alarm and crawled out of bed, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he fumbled for his clothes and kit. He decided he could have a shower after their return to base. The mission while simple, sounded like it was anything but routine. The briefing they had received told them the landing zone would likely be hot with Ultra-Nationalist fire. Yet despite this, General Shepherd was still insisting on coming with them to Georgia. And then there had been the order to kill and dispose of their contacts after obtaining the information from them. It usually paid not to kill your contacts, especially when they were delivering intelligence of such importance that the General felt it was necessary to oversee the exchange. From the way Shepherd had initially talked about it, it sounded like they could have been spies working in the Ultra-nationalist camp. However, further into the briefing, they had received instructions to also eliminate a pair of snipers that would be positioned on a ridge as overwatch to the south of the LZ. To Carl, their contacts sounded more like a team than spies.

When he had finished pulling on the last of his clothes, he collected up his boots and moved silently towards the door, hoping as he slung his holster over his shoulder he hadn't woken the others he shared his room with. Pulling the door towards himself, he twisted the handle and silently left the room.

The horizon was an eggshell blue by the time he stepped out of the barracks into what felt like a solid wall of water. In a couple of hours the humidity would have burned off and the temperature would be an unbearable thirty-something degrees celsius. Wiping his face free of the water drops that already clung to it, he clipped his pancake holster to his waist and adjusted it to sit behind his kidney. Then he dropped the boots and slipped them on, stooping to strap up the laces before setting off at a quick pace towards the mess hall.

There's a buzz of activity on the runway that reminds him of summer holidays spent at the Whiteriver airfield as an apprentice to his dad. The hulking silhouette of a Pavelow came into view as he turned at the end of the barracks, their massive rotor blades beating up the air as the gargantuan T64 engines continued to hiss and scream. A man in a sweat soaked engineer's uniform jogs past in the direction of the hangers, a heavy wooden box under his arm. The dark rings under his eyes suggested he and his team had been working all night, probably trying to make the Pavelows air-worthy.

Carl brushes his hands down his shirt, fingers catching on the strap of his pancake holster as he enters the mess, doing a mental calculation of what else he might need. The rest of his kit was already clustered with the rest of his team's hanger. All he needed to do was chuck back some dry toast and a cup of coffee before he was ready to leave.

There are already a few men from his team in the mess, chewing on toast and nursing mugs of steaming liquid. Lambert is already there too, sipping tea at one of the many empty tables, lost in thought. Years of knowing Lambert had attuned Carl to his body language. He knew he tapped his fingers rhythmically on hard surfaces when he was contented and disconcordantly when he was pissed off. When he was worried his shoulders bunched up so hard, he had to keep rolling his shoulders to prevent the tension headaches. Carl pours himself a cup of coffee, to which he adds three teaspoons of sugar (his lip curled when there's no milk), grabs a slice of dry toast and a few pottles of refined butter. As he approached the table, Lambert rolled his shoulders and neck. Not a great sign.

Carl grunted in greeting, placing his mug and toast on the table, flopping into the chair next to Lambert. The chair legs flex in warning and Carl instinctively grabs for the table to stop him from falling on his ass should one or all of the legs snap off.

"It's too early for a news paper," grunted Lambert in obvious disgust, fingers curled around his cup of Earl Grey. Carl shrugged in response and waved his mug of black coffee at Lambert.

"Too early to milk too. Cow's must be sleeping in." He grinned when Lambert snorted and started smearing butter on his toast with a shitty plastic knife. On stroke four, the knife snapped. Undeterred he collected up the blade and continued to ladle on butter, determined to drown it in refined fat. He briefly considered sprinkling some sugar over it, but decided it'd lead to getting more shit than it was worth from the rest of the team.

They sat in silence while Carl chowed down on his butter stick. He's halfway through when Lambert asked, "Do you think there's anything-" he hesitated, choosing his words very carefully, "-concerning you, about today's mission?"

Carl took a sip of his sweetened coffee and pursed his lips. _I should be the one asking you that_ , he thought, but instead said, "Well… the General coming along is certainly not standard."

Lambert nodded in agreement, adding, "And the order to kill the contacts. It sounds like a team." He hesitated again. "Do you get the feeling there's something else going on here which we don't know about?"

Carl laughed. The bitterness of the sound surprised even himself. "Isn't that always the case? We do the grunt work while the higher-ups know the bigger picture. It's not our job to know what that is. We just follow orders."

"I know that," huffed Lambert impatiently. "But something else is at play here. We're collecting information that's not just important to the war effort or we could have picked it up by ourselves. It's important specifically to the Gener-"

"Lambert! Shut up and think about what you're saying," Carl growls and Lambert's teeth come together with an audible snap of irritation. "Just follow the orders. The General has our best interests at heart."

* * *

I hope you enjoyed. This is a re-worked version of my first fanfiction I wrote back in 2010, called Loose Ends. It would be really great to get some feedback on the story as I go so please leave a comment and let me know what you think. It doesn't take long to leave a comment, so please do. A nice comment really boosts the ego and confidence of lowly fanfiction writers, such as myself. And a constructive comment really helps the writer improve their own style.

So please leave a comment, even if it's one a couple of words long!


	2. Loose Ends

**20 miles north-west of Tbilisi, Georgia**

 **15 August 2016**

 **15:58:03**

We were fucked, I thought grimly as I skidded behind the dilapidated boathouse. Splinters from the shattering wooden rafters caught my cheek and neck as a handful of bullets hit the weathered panels. I hunkered down with the remaining two men on my team. Ghost was taking quick stock of his equipment, muttering soundlessly while he added up his remaining ammunition while Ozone cleared thick mud off his goggles and reorganized the mags hanging off his belt.

'How far away is the EVAC?' I asked as I loaded my USP.45 with fingers that shook slightly. My ears were still ringing from the explosion of a stun grenade.

'Two minutes,' replied Ghost shortly. There was a wet patch on the mouth of his balaclava, soaked in his spit. 'Ten seconds you two. We're making a break for the trees,' he pointed towards a small wood of cedar trees, 'get ready.'

Ozone clenched his jaw and muttered what sounded like a prayer. There was a crash as a bullet thudded into the sheet metal that covered the inside of the shed. The reinforcements must have been nervous and poorly trained. I guessed the mountain of bodies at the safe house had made them jittery. Good.

Five seconds. There was a deafening explosion less than 50 feet away as a mortar shell tore up the ground.

Three seconds. Another shell exploded closer to our position. I could almost hear the fuckers behind the mortars barking at each other in Russian as they corrected their aim.

Two seconds. Simon shifted his rifle and tensed like a sprinter on the mark. I shifted onto the balls of my feet. The dirt in my pants itched and I readjusted the seat of my pants to get it off my bollocks.

One second.

As one we tore off down the hill towards the wood. Everything seemed to slow as adrenaline surged through me. I could hear my heartbeat thundering in my ears, the sharp intake of breath over the chatter of rifles. We reached the trees and began dodging around them, zigzagging desperately to spoil the aim of the men. My foot caught on a root and I grabbed desperately at a sapling to check my balance. A sharp crack and the sapling exploded as a well-aimed round tore through it splintering the tiny trunk, followed by a second sharp crack.

'Got him,' announced the PRR pad in my ear. Archer must have taken care of the sniper.

Another earth-sundering explosion erupted 20 feet to my left close enough I that could feel the heat of it. I raised an arm to protect my face from the hail of dirt as Ghost sprinted past, yelling something incoherent. I didn't have to wait long to find out what he had been yelling about.

My foot connected with something soft and squishy and dimly out of the corner of my eye I recognized the up-turned lifeless face.

'Ozone's down.'

There was a pool of red leaking out of his body and a hole the size of a dinner plate in his chest where I could make out the sharp white of shattered bone surrounded by oozing pink flesh. Shit, shit shit! My stomach heaved and I spat out a mouthful of acidic bile. The blood-soaked rubber soles of my boots kept slipping on the ground, making it hard to keep my frenzied descent down the hill in check. The roar of rotarblades overhead told me we were almost at the EVAC site. I glanced up to see the helo racing overhead, but the sound was suddenly cut off dead by a huge explosion. My body jerked as if someone had swung a pickaxe handle into my chest and I was hurled backwards. I flung my hands into the air and crumpled to the ground. Indescribable pain shot up my arm and I lay there stunned, the air forced from my lungs by the fall.

'Roach!'

I blinked stupidly as I felt Ghost grab my shoulder and begin to drag me backwards. His grunts seemed to drown out the gunfire. 'I've got you Roach, hang on.' I could barely make out the words over the ringing in my ears. The whole world seemed to tilt horribly.

'-popped red smoke in the tree-line, stand by to engage on my mark,' Ghost seemed to redouble his efforts, hauling me away from the trees by my shoulder strap. A little bird helicopter hovered over us and a machine gun screamed as it fired up. The tree line seemed to explode into splinters as the gunner fired indiscriminately at his targets.

I felt Ghost grab my good arm and he hauled me to my feet. 'Com'on get up! Get up! We're almost there,' he began lugging me towards the pavelow which had men pouring out of it. They formed a protective circle around us, firing into the woods occasionally. Another shadow appeared in the darkness of the helo's interior and I felt Ghost freeze up suddenly as if shocked. With purpose he hurried over to us, holding a hand to his red beret to prevent it from flying off in the down draft of the powerful rotorblades. What the hell was General Shepherd doing here?

His soup strainer moustache quivered anxiously. 'Do you have the DSM?' he yelled over the massive engines.

"We've got it sir,' Ghost replied evenly. There was a hint of suspicion in his voice, and he seemed to be wondering the same thing as me. Why the fuck was a high ranking general popping his valuable head out of the helo in a place still hot with gunfire? Ghost must have decided the question could wait and began moving towards the bay doors, eager to get the fuck out of here.

'Good.' Shepherd seemed to visibly relax, 'that's one less loose end.'

There was a crack and I staggered, pain blossoming around my midsection. I felt Ghost let go of me reflexively as he stumbled back in shock and I crumpled to the floor and lay in a heap of pain and disbelief.

'No!' I barely registered the pistol in Shepherd's hand as Ghost leveled his rifle at him too late. The pistol spat again and Ghost collapsed with a heavy thump next to me.

'Wh-', my earpiece went dead and I heard the crack of a rifle close at hand. I wondered if Archer and his spotter Toad were dead. Shepherd knelt next to me and began digging through my vest, paying no heed to my stare of disbelief or my weak struggles. He was so close I could smell the sharp stink of nicotine on his breath and the reek of brilcreem. He pulled away, and glanced down at the hardware he had removed from my vest, looking pleased with himself and motioned toward the men who had piled out of the helicopter with him. My back was starting to feel like I was lying in a warm bath as blood oozed sluggishly from the hole Shepherd had given me. Two men approached, one wore a thick balaclava and was built like the fucking Michelin man while the other was small and skinny with a tiny, up-turned nose that reminded me of a rat. He had striped his face with black paint and wore the kind of expression you use when you realize you've stepped in dog shit and seemed to be desperate to avoid getting the blood pooling around me on his boots. The michelin man grabbed my feet and my middle throbbed horribly as I began to black out.

I came to, spluttering when cold liquid splashed on my mouth. My nose burnt with the reek of gasoline. Rat-face was upending a jerry can over me, soaking my clothes in fuel. I turned my face and spluttered, choking on the stuff. Ghost was lying next to me, motionless. I wondered if he was dead. I hoped he was. I knew what was coming next. Being burned to death was one of the worst ways to go. The radio in my ear erupted with noise, as someone yelled 'do not trust Shepherd'. The call was too fucking late. Crying fucking shame.

Shepherd loomed above. He puffed on a cigar and paused admiring the glowing red end. Then he flicked it into the pit with Ghost and me. The gasoline lit on contact and Shepherd turned away, signaling to the pilot of the pavelow.

There was no pain yet. The fire was still busy consuming the petrol around us but soon… soon…

I just hoped it would burn through the nerve endings quickly.


	3. Archer

**20 miles north-west of Tbilisi, Georgia**

 **15 August 2016**

 **15:59:21**

'Tango down,' Archer murmured coolly as the man in his scope hit the ground, a hole in his eye and his brains splattered on the ground behind him. Carefully Archer readjusted himself, feet splayed, heels pressed against the ground to stabilize himself. There was a distant rumble to the east, which increased in volume with each passing second. It must have been the evac.

'Target by frog rock,' murmured his spotter, Toad, binoculars carefully taking stock of any changes in the wind direction or speed. 'Hold at 2 notches,' the conditions obviously hadn't changed much.

'Frog rock, holding at two notches.' The rifle moved deliberately towards the rock on the edge of the huge lake-like puddle near the boathouse. The rain that had hampered the mountains over the last week had caused the river to the west of the house to burst its banks. It was a shame -decided Archer- that the 141 had decided to go ahead with the operation after the rains had passed. The heavy rain would have given the task force an edge over Makarov's men.

 _Crack_

'Hit the neck.' Archer only grunted in reply to his spotter. 'The strike team has reached the trees,' he turned the binoculars to the house as something caught his eye. 'Sniper in the second window. He's taking aim at the team,' murmured Toad calmly.

As the scope swept around to bring sights to bear on the enemy sniper there was a crack. It was the last shot he took as Archer's own bullet hit home.

'Got him,' growled Archer into the radio.

'Poor Roach must have just about shat himself,' smiled Toad watching as the distant form of Roach stumbled upright away from the shattered remains of a sapling. He glanced up at the ridge where three men were wrestling with a steel pipe affixed to a tripod. To the left another group surrounding an already set up pipe dropped something into it.

'Mortars on the far left ridge Archer, be snappy about it,' hardly had the words left Toad's mouth when there was a deafening explosion in the wood below. Toad glanced down at the wood through his binoculars, his mouth going dry. Ozone was spread eagle on the ground; half of his chest appeared to be missing. His throat felt like sandpaper as he swallowed and muttered into the radio, 'Ozone is down.' There was a crack and Toad dragged his gaze away from the broken body of his friend to the ridge. One of the men holding the mortar collapsed in a heap and Toad smiled savagely. 'Nice shot,' he spat bitterly.

'Keep your head Greg,' murmured Archer in reply as he lined up the next shot with the soldier readying the round. The dead man had already been pushed aside in the soldiers' desperate attempt to stop the strike team's retreat. There would be time to mourn for Ozone later, but right now they had a job to do. Mistakes happen when emotions become involved and with just two members of the original eight strong strike team left, they couldn't afford any more mistakes.

The distant rumble had risen to a thunderous crescendo as three helicopters flew in from the east; two little birds flanking a huge bulking pavelow. One of the little birds carried a minigun while the other had a sniper settled amongst three other soldiers, presumably to provide overwatch support while they were collecting the strike team. It seemed overkill for what should be a quick dust off, thought Archer, but he was glad to have the support. It would give Toad and him plenty of time to make a run for the LZ and thus, plenty of time to continue to provide overwatch support. 'Delta 4, we are inbound east. **Packing fire**.'

Ghost turned and threw a canister into the trees. Red smoke erupted from it and the whole tree line became shrouded with it. Toad looked back at the ridge as Archer took the shot.

'Missed, adjust one notch,' snapped Toad. He could have betted the downdraft from the incoming squadron and thrown off the bullet. There was another explosion followed by a yell.

'Fuck! Roach is down!' Roach was barely conscious when Ghost grabbed his shoulder strap and began dragging him across the ground. Ghost must have flicked his radio onto constant transmission. 'Thunder 2-1 I've popped red smoke in the tree-line, standby to engage on my mark."

The rifle cracked again and the bullet hit the target's head, splitting it like a watermelon.

'Roger that Delta. We have eyes on smoke. Waiting on your mark.'

Another crack. The gunner of the second mortar team went down fingers grasping desperately at his chest.

'Thunder 2-1 cleared hot!' The loud scream as the minigun span to life, drowned out the affirm radio call from the gunner.

'Get ready to move,' snapped Archer as Toad stuffed his notebook into his pouch before snatching up the binoculars while Archer pressed a finger to the transmit button on the PRR pad.

'Thunder 2-1, lima is ready for exfil,'

'Roger that lima, remain in position,' responded the pilot.

'Roger remaining at golf,' replied Archer, raising an eyebrow at Toad. The unasked question was answered as soon as the pavelow landed.

'What the fuck is General Shepherd doing here?' gasped Toad as Shepherd emerged from the pavelow and began talking urgently to Roach and Ghost. Archer didn't reply; he was as stunned as his spotter was. Instead he rolled slightly to grab the drag bag he was lying on, locked the bolt to the rear and removed the mag from the rifle with practiced hands, eyes locked on the exchange. He wasn't expecting the sharp report of a pistol, nor had he grasped the situation by the time the pistol spat again.

'Wha-'

Archer flinched as his face was splattered with blood and brain. A red flower blossomed at the temple of his spotter and he slumped forward over the rock they had been using for their set-up. Archer threw himself flat without thinking. He had seen the sniper in the little bird take careful aim out of the corner of his eye but had been too surprised to register what it meant.

Why had the sniper opened fire on them? They had to have known their position. Had to have known that they were providing overwatch to the south of the safehouse. This wasn't a mistake. It was an ambush.

The PRR pad burst to life in his ear. 'Ghost, come in this is Price!' the distant chatter of machine gun fire in background told Archer all he needed to know.

'We're under attack by Shepherd's men at the bone yar- Soap hold the left flank! Do not trust Shepherd! I say again, do not trust Shepherd! Soap, get down!-' the radio cut off dead.

He didn't dare answer the call. Shepherd and his team would have been listening in and Archer knew his only hope in survival lay in keeping silent. There was a report of more shots fired in the valley below and Archer wondered if the ultranationalists were redoubling their efforts to prevent the extraction. There was nothing he could do. Shepherd's men outnumbered him 30 to one so **shooting was** out of the question- especially with the minigun. Moving from his position would be equally fatal. Any sniper worth his salt would have his scope trained on the rock, and he would know there was one more target to eliminate. Once the helicopter changed position he would have a clear shot.

The sickening _drip, drip drip_ of blood from his spotter's temple splashing on the rock seemed to count down the last remaining seconds of Archer's miserable existence. When at last he heard the faint change in the pitch of rotors, Archer took a deep breath and closed his eyes. This was it, he thought, bracing for the impact of the bullet. This is where I die.

There was a deafening crash and he flinched as PRR pad screamed in his ear, 'Shit, shit! Mortars on the ridge! Covering fire, protect Gold Eagle.'

Another explosion followed the first in quick succession. The minigun screamed and rattled off. The straggling ultranationalist survivors must have been putting up one hell of a fight. There was another explosion close at hand and the ridge Archer was perched on rumbled threateningly.

'Gold Eagle is secure, we're lifting off,' snapped the pilot of the pavelow, putting action to words as pavelow as rose into the air and hastily began its retreat to the west with both little birds in hot pursuit.

Total silence.

The heavy silence was oppressive after the horrendous noises of the last hour.

 _Drip_ … _drip_. The falling blood was coagulating horribly into viscous sticky puddles. The blood and brain on his face had begun to dry into a thick paste and he rubbed at it with the sleeve of his jacket. There was nothing he could do for his spotter. He searched Toad's pockets carefully, pulling out a small collection of papers. He ripped them up quickly and struck a match, burning them. Almost clinically he reached into his spotter's clothes and tugged off his identification tags. Kicking at the ashes of the papers, he crawled cautiously around the rock. From his position he could see dying puffs of smoke coming from a shallow crater near the trees. The crater seemed to have collapsed in on itself, though why this had happened was not immediately apparent. He glanced back at his spotter and fought the urge to hyperventilate, instead taking deep, slow, calculated breaths, fighting to think coherently about his next move. He glanced down at the smoldering crater. The only thing Shepherd's men would have lit a fire for would be for destroying sensitive information, reasoned Archer. He wondered if the bodies of Roach and Ghost fell under this category and guessed they must have done, given their bodies no longer lay where they had been shot. His next move should be to get to the crater and recover any equipment or supplies that would be useful to him.

Cautiously, he raised himself onto his elbows.

Nothing happened.

A slight breeze caught on his blood soaked clothes and he suppressed a shiver. He rolled upright into to a crouch, and paused. Still nothing. So far so good.

His first priority was to make sure the area was secured. Abandoning his rifle and throwing off his ghillie suit he grabbed his spotter's M16A1 rifle, flicked the safety off and stuffed his pockets with the magazine cartridges, eyes scanning the ridge, woods and flat carefully while he did this. Very slowly, he stood up and still crouching, made his way down the ridge. The path he picked was thick with damp vegetation and perfect for an exit path where stealth, rather than speed, was key. He paused often to listen and was relieved to find the silence unbroken.

Finally he reached the bottom of the ridge, hiding in the shade of an outcropping rock to listen. Satisfied no one was around, he began edging towards the crater. Its collapse became immediately apparent. It made perfect sense for the ultranationalist mortar gunners to be aiming for the smoke. Archer also reasoned that the general -stripes and all- had been standing near the crater too. It would have been a tempting target to aim for. One of the mortar shells must have hit the lip and thrown dirt into it, putting out the fire. Unfortunately this setback made recovery of supplies more difficult. He'd have to work quickly.

He was a few meters from the crater's edge when he froze. He was sure he had heard something. He crouched to make himself a smaller target, ears straining and eyes scanning the flat for potential threats. From the crater came a faint, muffled whimper and he crept closer to the lip.

There was another whimper and with a jolt of realization, Archer hurriedly jumped into it and began shoveling handfuls of soil aside. 'Gary, is that you?'


End file.
